


show me your flesh wounds

by theonlytwin



Series: darkest heart [2]
Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 10:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonlytwin/pseuds/theonlytwin
Summary: He has no idea how to talk about sex, and neither does Valjean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> repost of what had previously been a chapter of a thing

Javert spent most of his life assuming he would die alone. 

This wasn’t a sad thought, or self pitying, it was a fact. A fact he knew, without ever having cause to question it. 

Valjean, it turns out, keeps forcing him to learn things about himself too.

***

It’s just after midnight by the time he gets to Valjean’s. He was meant to be there for dinner, but spent hours dealing with jurisdictional bullshit to secure an arrest warrant for a sex trafficker. 

Valjean opens the door in pyjama pants. It’s the middle of winter. 

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I won’t be when you’re in bed,” Valjean says, locking the door.

He pulls off his boots as Valjean turns off the porch light. "Sorry I kept you up."

"I don't sleep so well without you anyway," Valjean takes his coat, hangs it up.

"Then I'm still to blame," Javert frowns, and Valjean gives a little shrug. 

"I never slept well. I do with you. Come on," he catches Javert's hand, tugs him gently. 

Javert's still frowning when they get to the room, when he undoes his tie, and Valjean his shirt buttons.

"I think I sleep better with you too," Javert says, loud in the quiet room. 

"And here we are, conveniently, beside a bed." Valjean undoes Javert's belt buckle, kisses the point of his jaw. "Maybe we should test this theory."

He hangs his pants up, plugs his phone in, coils the rosary up next to the book Valjean’s been reading - more Graeber essays, which he’s going to want Javert to read, so they can argue about them. 

They settle under the covers, Valjean’s cold nose pressed against his back, his knees against Javert’s thighs, their arms crooked together. 

He sleeps heavily.

***

Things between them seem either impossibly easy or endlessly inexpressible.

They eat together, sit in the garden, go to shelters and community events, sometimes shower together. 

Javert finds himself occasionally infuriated by Valjean’s pure and incorruptible belief in the best in people. He knows that he benefits from it, so he doesn’t say anything directly. They argue often, and don’t always end in agreement. 

He has no idea how to talk about sex, and neither does Valjean. 

Some nights Javert can kiss his way up Valjean’s leg, curl his tongue into places that bring new noises out of Valjean’s dangerous mouth. Some nights Valjean can pin him to the floor, dragging the orgasm out of him, both of the desperate. Sometimes Valjean will fold himself away, eyes shuttering, and Javert will stop, and they will apologise to each other, and often hold hands. Sometimes Javert will freeze up with conflicting desires, unsure whether to press on or hold back, uncertain as to what he wants for Valjean and what he wants for himself, and Valjean will stroke his hair. 

Mostly, though, it works. 

Once, Valjean had left red marks on Javert’s chest and upper arm. Javert had not noticed until after - Valjean, lying on his side, had touched a finger to them, very gently, one by one.

“Sorry,” he says, when Javert catches his eye. “Does that hurt?”

Javert shakes his head.

“You bruise very easily,” Valjean says, his voice distant. “I didn’t mean to leave such obvious marks.”

“But you meant to leave marks?” Javert asks, and Valjean hides his face against Javert’s side. “I don’t mind,” he says, hand on the back of his neck, “I’m owed some, I think.”

“It’s not like that,” Valjean says, not looking up.

“I don’t mind,” Javert repeats, rubbing between his shoulders. “I liked it,” he admits, and rolls closer, hiding his face as well.

“I must be getting selfish in my old age,” whispers Valjean, “because I really want to believe that.”

“Have you ever known me to lie?” Valjean wraps an arm around Javert’s waist, presses his mouth against the bruises. “That,” he gasps, soft dick stirring, “that, that’s good.”

So, mostly, it works, between them.

***

The anniversary of the engagement party is going to be another fundraiser hosted at Valjean’s, he is warned. 

"They want to make it a tradition, Cosette and Marius. Celebrating by helping."

“What time does it start?”

“People will be coming from 7. If you’re free from 5, though, we’re setting up.”

“Getting there early means I get to leave early, right?”

“You enjoyed the last party,” Valjean says, lightly. Javert clenches his jaw. “I was thinking we could both leave early, this time.”

They do both fit into Javert’s cheap double bed, but it’s a near thing. They can sleep shoulder to shoulder, though it’s better on their sides, face to face, Valjean’s arm over his waist, knees bumping. Better because neither of them run out of sheet that way. For that reason, and no other.

“Sure,” he says. “See you at 5,” and hangs up.

“What’re you angry about?” Sandoval sits across from him. 

“I’m not.”

“You’re all red.” She glances at his phone. “You’re either angry or...” 

“I have a lead on the counterfeiting case,” he says, ignoring her leading tactics.

"See, now you're angry."

***

He arrives at Valjean's still in uniform, because he only owns one pair of party-appropriate non-work pants, and they're in Valjean's bedroom.

The side gate is open, a couple of cars out the front, one full of boxed beer, the other sound equipment. He follows voices around the side of the house.

"Five-oh, five-oh," says a Latino male, 6'3'', early twenties, dropping the stack of plastic chairs he's carrying, eyes widening.

"Shut up," hisses a black woman, 5'8'', mid-thirties, unfolding the legs of a collapsible table. She stands and plasters a smile onto her face. "Hello, officer. Is anything the matter?"

He should have changed his shirt.

"No," he says, and then Cosette steps through the sliding doors onto the porch.

"Oh, Javert, finally!”

“Do you need me to arrest some people?” he says, and grins. He’s trying for non-threatening, but the black woman takes a step back.

“No!” she says. “I don't think so. No.” Then, to the woman, “It was one time! They deserved it.”

Valjean appears behind her, a huge coil of christmas lights over one shoulder and an extension cord over the other. “Stop smiling, you’re scaring the children.”

“I was _trying_ to tell a joke."

"Have you ever told a joke that wasn't terrifying?" Valjean crosses the lawn, stands by him, Cosette a step behind.

"Probably?" He scratches his nose. "At least once. Anyway, this one called me five-oh, which," he turns to the kid, "no one's called the cops since I was your age."

"Yeah, but, the show got rebooted, so," he shrugs.

"Mateo, Etta, this is Javert," Cosette gestures between them. "I've told you about him, haven't I?"

"You did not mention he was a cop," Etta says out of the side of her mouth, then smiles at Javert some more.

“Go put a less intimidating shirt on," Valjean advises, gently shoulder checking him.

"But first, help me tell Papa not to climb that tree," she points to the tall chinkapin oak down the end of the yard. Valjean taught him how to recognise and name of all the trees, flowers, herbs and vegetables in the garden last year, back before Javert figured out how to distract him enough to stop talking about plants.

"Why?"

“So I can put lights in the lower branches, and everyone can enjoy the garden tonight,” Valjean says quickly.

“So he can fall out of the tree and break his neck and _die_ ,” Cosette announces.

“That tree?” Javert looks at it. The lowest branches are a little above his own head, thick and heavy with foliage. “He won’t fall out of that.” Valjean nods. Cosette glares. “He’s climbed worse.”

“Recently, though?” Cosette insists, and Valjean leans against him, a steady pressure.

“No?” Javert shakes his head, “no, he certainly did not climb two stories of brick wall a month ago because someone accidentally locked keys to the community center inside. No.”

“He lies about as well as he jokes,” Valjean confides to Etta.

Cosette sighs. "Fine. But no dying."

"I hadn't planned to," Valjean smiles and starts toward the tree.

"An on-duty police officer would have to announce themselves, walking into a private property," he tells Etta, as Valjean scales the trunk like it's a set of stairs.

"I was about to ask to see your badge, don't you worry," she says, folding her arms. She's stopped smiling, which is a relief.

Mateo's picked up his chair stack again. Cosette starts arranging them. The oak ripples as Valjean moves through it.

“Do you want a hand with this?” he gestures to the table. 

Etta looks at Cosette, who nods encouragingly, then the tree, then him. “Sure,” she says, and he helps her fix the legs and flip it over. 

“Hey, Etta,” a white woman comes out of the house holding some cables, and double takes. “Are we getting shut down? Already? I haven’t even plugged in the speakers!”

“No!” Cosette waves her hands, “No, Leah, this is Javert, remember? I told all of you about Javert.”

“Oh my god,” the woman says, rolling her eyes. “Trust Cosette to have two bara dads.”

“That _is_ just classic Cosette,” Mateo agrees, and she smacks him on the shoulder. 

“What did she call me?” Javert asks Cosette, who covers her face.

“You don’t want to know?” she offers.

“Nothing bad,” Etta affirms.

“You look like the Village People cop, is what I’m saying,” Leah says, then winces. “Um. Sir? In the nicest, most respectful possible way.”

Etta sighs.

Valjean drops out of the tree with the end of the extension cord trailing behind him. Javert doesn’t think he heard.

“Weren’t you going to get changed?” he calls. 

“Yes!” Cosette says. “Please?”

***

As he steps out of his pants, Valjean walks in, shuts the door again with a careful click. 

“They’re a lot, aren’t they?”

“They’re afraid of me,” Javert says flatly. “Those kids. I should have changed before I got here,” he shakes his head. “I didn’t think.”

“They don’t know you,” Valjean starts. “They’ll calm down.”

“I rely on that kind of fear,” Javert says, suddenly angry. “Everyday, people are afraid of me. They _should_ be afraid. First thing I did when I walked in was start profiling them. I judge people, I have to judge people, and sometimes I’m wrong, I’ve been wrong, I will be wrong.” He’s having a panic attack, which he hasn’t had since the first time Valjean shyly presented a bottle of lube and Javert had rolled off the bed, hyperventilating. He’s standing in a convict’s bedroom in his underpants panicking because he’s spent his life cultivating the fear of strangers. “Of course they’re afraid of me. They should be.”

Valjean takes hold of his wrists. “That’s not you, Javert.”

“I need that fear to do my job,” he says, frantic, and Valjean wraps his arms around Javert, holds him and breathes in and out slowly, stroking his bare back.

“You have changed,” Valjean tells him, after a while. “We have changed.” His heart rate gradually drops. “If we can change, the world can.”

Javert sags against him. “That’ll take a while,” he mutters.

“All things in their time,” Valjean says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. “Until then, we do what we can.”

“Put lights in trees and sell beers without a license,” his voice is still more watery than he would like.

“Spread love,” Valjean says, so earnestly Javert has to hold him tighter, because this man seems barely real.

“You are ridiculous,” he says, when he trusts himself to talk, and, quietly, “You deserve better.” 

Valjean makes a disgusted noise, detaches from the hug, looks squarely at Javert. “ _That’s_ ridiculous.” He makes a gesture somewhere between a cuff and a caress, his hand landing heavily on the back of Javert’s skull and sliding around to his face. “I don’t deserve _better_. I don’t deserve anything, and if I did,” he shakes his head, “I want you.”

Javert pulls him close again, mouth pressed to Valjean’s forehead. “Ridiculous,” he says, and Valjean, who smells of oak, huffs a laugh. 

They stand there, arms around each other, Javert’s breath level again. There’s a sudden momentary blare of very loud music, and they break apart. Someone yells “Sorry!” 

“I should put clothes on,” Javert mutters.

“Should you?” Valjean asks, half-smiling. 

“Yes?” Javert raises his eyebrows as Valjean curls a hand around his bicep, drops a kiss onto his collarbone. “Valjean. Your house is _full_ of people. Full of your _daughter’s_ friends.”

“One of them high fived me on my way in,” Valjean says, as he steps back.

“That doesn’t help,” Javert tells him, a little horrified. 

“You’ve got tree sap on you,” Valjean replies, licking his thumb, swiping it under Javert’s ribs. “From my shirt, sorry.”

Javert stands in his underpants in a convict’s bedroom getting tree sap cleaned off him because he’s spent the past two years of his life cultivating the affection of a very strange man.

***

They emerge into the party preparation looking like fully functional adults who aren’t even a little covered in tree sap.

“Good advice guys!” hails the person setting up the bar. The chalkboard is still there, but now there’s an actual drinks trolley. 

“I see you’re already prepared,” Valjean gestures to the chalkboard, which has _Recommended donations for drinks_ written in flowy script, with a scale from _$0 = UNAMERICAN_ , next to a carefully chalked crying eagle, down to _$100 = GOD TEIR GOOD PERSON_ , next to some fireworks.

“Yup. Y’all saved my butt, couple-three months back, when someone called the pigs on us.”

“Good,” says Javert, pretending not to notice Etta making a cut throat gesture behind him. “You’re doing good work, in a legal gray area, there’s no need to risk a fine. I don’t think I caught your name, I’m Javert. Do you have pronoun preferences?”

“I’m Lex, they is fine.” Their eyes keep sliding sideways, but they smile at Javert. “Where did you learn to ask that? No offence, but no one over 25 asks that. Uh, Etta, is something wrong?”

“Nope,” she says, all false jollity. “Just wondering if I could get a hand out back!”

“Sensitivity training with the Dallas Police Department,” Javert says. “They make sure we all know what we’re supposed to say. Even though a lot of us don’t.”

“Oh!” says Lex, eyes widening. “Oh, shit. Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Javert says, and turns to Etta. “You needed us out the back?”

***

The yard does look good, with the lights in the tree, a crowd of people milling around, commenting on the herb patch. Javert has a sudden, vivid sense memory of kissing Valjean for the first time, here, in the dark, and decides to find him. 

Valjean is in the kitchen, pouring chips into bowls. Etta is there too. Neither of them notice him in the hall.

“See, I saw your tatts. And I’ve lost people, to prison, to cop killings. During the riots. I can’t believe that you haven’t lost people. I mean no disrespect, but what are you _doing_ with a _cop_?”

“He is not only a cop. He is not every cop. A person is not an institution, Musichetta. A person cannot be held accountable for the actions of an organisation. They can only be responsible for what they’ve done. The decisions they’ve made.”

“Yeah, like all those people who decide to be poor and brown? Who decide to commit crimes?”

“The master’s tools will not dismantle the master’s house,” Valjean says, slowly. “Why make the same blanket assumptions the oppressors make? He’s one man. He’s made amends. How can we improve without forgiveness?”

Javert backs down the hallway, goes to the drinks trolley. 

“Beer or cocktail?” Lex asks, when Javert folds a twenty ( _WHAT A BRO!_ ) into the jar.

“I’ve never had a cocktail before,” Javert says, and Lex grins. 

***

Javert rarely drinks. He’s never had more than three drinks in a night. He’s never been properly impaired by alcohol, he’s never swayed or slurred his words the way half of remand seems to, on a weekend.

He’s drunk now, off of Lex’s mystery cocktail, which was delicious and orange and served over ice. He’s not swaying, or slurring, but he knows he’s drunk because if he was sober, he would not be talking to this many strangers this much at such a high pace. Mateo and three other young people have been asking him about his job, and carefully listening to all the answers.

“The issue is funding, in a lot of ways. To be a police officer, ideally, you need to be smart, physically but also mentally fit, trained in people management and psychology and community organisation and deduction and the history of the legal system and non-fatal martial arts and instead, police academies are twenty weeks of defensive driving and report writing. I’m not saying those aren’t important skills - data integrity is paramount, as a police officer - but those aren’t the only skills. And the only way the police force can improve is with improved education, from the bottom to the top. Re-train _everyone_. Train them to see their responsibility to the people, not the jail industry. But instead of spending money on improving their officers, no, no, they’re buying new assault rifles off the army. Spending government money on government property. No one would ever need assault rifles if we had better educated police.”

“Fuck yeah,” Mateo says, and hands him another drink. 

“I should not drink this,” he says, and hands it back. “Valjean never learnt to drive.”

“Hang on, is Cosette’s dad’s name _Jean Valjean?_ ” says one of the strangers. “That is the dumbest name in the world. That’s some Mike Michaels shit right there.”

“He’s got lots of names,” Javert says, momentarily relieved before he realises he really has to stop talking. “I have to find him.”

“Nice,” Mateo says, and holds his hand up for a high five. Javert stares him down. “Or not?”

Javert thanks them all for paying attention, and pushes off, through the party. 

Valjean is holding a beer he probably paid $100 for, talking to someone from Marius’ office. He excuses himself when he spots Javert, which might mean that Javert is looking a little impaired. 

“Should we go?” he asks, a hand coming up to Javert’s elbow.

“I don’t think I can drive yet, but we do need to go somewhere. I need to stop talking. I nearly told some people about that time you named yourself after a pastry.”

“What?”

“I had a cocktail. I’ve never had a cocktail before.”

“Oh sweet Jesus, come on,” Valjean laughs. 

***

He closes them, carefully, into the bedroom again. 

“I mean it wouldn’t actually matter. If I told these people how you were a mayor under a fake name. They’d probably be impressed.” Valjean sits him down on the edge of the bed, kneels between his legs and starts on his laces. “It was pretty impressive. Becoming a mayor. Out of nothing. Everyone was very impressed, remember?”

“I don’t remember you being particularly impressed.” He tugs off one shoe, puts it behind him. “I mostly remember you being annoyed.”

“I was annoyed. You’re very annoying. I’m not sure anymore, if I was attracted to the mayor. If I was repressing. I didn’t actually think about you, like this, until after, with the pardon, when you held my hand.”

“I remember that.” Valjean’s hands are warm through his jeans, his eyes dark. 

It would be very easy to kiss him, so Javert does, bent forward, thumbs against his cheekbones, fingers threaded through his beard. “That’s what I wanted to do, then.”

Valjean smiles, teeth flashing, leans up, kissing him again, wetter this time, sloppier. 

His hands travel up Javert’s legs, past his waist, under his shirt. “Can I show you what I wanted to do, earlier?”

There’s a baseline throbbing through the house, and many more people than there was before, but that provides a kind of anonymity they didn’t have before. No one watched them go into the bedroom this time. Mateo did try to high five him, but was probably already distracted. This room has an en suite and everything.

“Show me,” Javert nods. 

“Take your clothes off,” Valjean tells him, sitting back on his heels to watch. He looks at Javert, times like this, like he’s dying of thirst, like a man who’s been crawling through the desert for 40 days and just spotted an oasis.

Javert sits again, on the edge of the bed, naked, and Valjean surges up, catches his face, kisses him furiously, biting his bottom lip, raking his teeth over and over. 

He’s getting hard from the kiss, from the heat of Valjean against him, and he gets his hands Valjean’s sides, digging his fingers in occasionally.

Valjean lets go, rubs his hands over Javert’s inner thighs, pushes him back, so he’s lying down with his feet still planted on the floor. 

Javert sighs when Valjean mouths at his balls, his mouth wet, his tongue hot. He licks a line up his dick, back down, behind, Javert sighs again, then shouts a little when Valjean wraps a lube slick hand around his dick and starts to pump. His other hand, also slick, starts sliding along his crack, thumb pressed against his hole. 

“OK?” Valjean asks, and Javert makes some low noises that resolve themselves, after a second’s focus, into a “Yes.”

Valjean licks at the head of Javert’s dick, and slowly, with a thumb easing into him, swallows him down, slowly takes him apart, as music filters through the door, something about a saddle that's waiting.

He strains, between Valjean’s hand and Valjean’s mouth, wanting more and less and everything, he winds the bedspread into his fists, comes with another guttural sound, nearly crying, bearing down on Valjean’s thumb and pulling back again.

He just breathes, for a second, and then props himself up to watch Valjean, Valjean staggering to his feet, Valjean stripping off his clothes, Valjean wrapping a hand around his own dick.

“Here,” Javert says, pushing himself back up the bed, rolling over, and Valjean climbs onto him, slides his dick into the tight, wet space between Javert’s thighs, bumping against his balls, and thrusts. Javert pulls his thighs tighter as Valjean speeds up, and moans along with him when he comes, covering him.

***

An hour later, Javert drives them back to his apartment, and they sleep face to face, knees bumping. 

***

A week after the party, it’s 0703 and he has a briefing at 0745 and he’s pouring coffee into the travel mug Cosette gave him at Christmas. 

Valjean pads into the kitchen. He’s wearing one of Javert’s shirts. 

“I’m taking all of the coffee,” Javert tells him, screwing the lid on.

“You got in late,” Valjean says, “you deserve it.” 

“You don’t normally get up,” Javert says, suddenly feeling like an interloper. “I would have made more.” He’s in his uniform, jacket unbuttoned, tie done up tight. Valjean folds his arms, stretching Javert’s shirt in ways it doesn’t normally stretch. He raises his eyebrows at Javert, in a way that’s probably only pretending to be disappointed. “I can make more.”

Valjean steps in, curves a hand around Javert’s waist, under his jacket, kisses the corner of his mouth. “I thought you were in a hurry?” he says quietly, against skin.

Javert is still holding the mug. “I am.” He breathes, for a moment, against Valjean’s temple, finds Valjean's wrist with the fingers of his free hand. “I should be done at a reasonable time tonight.”

“Here,” Valjean puts something into his hand. “For your late nights.” 

It’s a fresh cut house key. 

“Are you - is this,” he looks at the key, and then his watch, the coffee sloshing. 

“I like having you close,” Valjean says. “I want you to be able to come and go.”

“But it’s your house,” Javert says, flatly.

“Technically, it’s under Cosette’s name. You don’t have to move in, just yet, I just,” he stops, looks carefully him. “Are you OK? Is this OK?”

“Yeah, I,” he hesitates, “I like being close. It’s, um.” He shakes his head. “Just yet?”

“If you want to keep your own space,” Valjean says, “or find a different place, we could do that.”

“Do you even have a credit rating?” Javert asks, distracted by the logistics. “No, don’t answer that. I’m keeping the apartment. If only to have somewhere to go when you host the next party. There’s going to be more parties, right?”

Valjean smiles, a little. “Probably.”

Javert looks at the key again, “Are you sure?”

Valjean smiles entirely, his face lighting up. 

“Javert, this is it, for me,” he says, and gently closes Javert’s hand on the key. “You and me. This is what I want. If you do.”

“Of course I do,” Javert says, slightly surprised to realise that it’s true. “There’s nothing else I want.”

***

Javert is two minutes late to the briefing. No one notices except Sandoval, who laughs at him.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought to myself "maybe write a little porn coda?" and then i poured a bunch of ideology and minor panic attacks all over it, because that's like porn, right?
> 
> one or two drinks in, i'm bad with secrets, but, more importantly, i'm all about unabridged didactic analysis of social issues that usually ends up in "MORE EDUCATION - PRIVATISE NOTHING - LUXURY COMMUNISM" (i figured javert wouldn't be all the way there yet)
> 
> part of this story inspired by my cop godfather telling me about the gender/sexuality sensitivity training he did, where they taught a bunch of detective sergeants about non-binary genders, like, he says to me at sunday dinner "have you heard about these intersex people? not male or female? both and neither? how good is that?"


End file.
